


i'm losing touch

by hairtiesoncuffs



Series: falling out of conversations [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anyways, Disassociation, Flashbacks, Gen, No One Is Okay, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Has PTSD, Trauma, haha - Freeform, i don't know what else to tag so just don't die i guess, it's kind of dark, memories actually, sam winchester was in the cage, that's the same thing, there's nothing anyone can do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:35:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27148123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hairtiesoncuffs/pseuds/hairtiesoncuffs
Summary: Lucifer was eternal. (Sam doesn’t like to think about him but it’s impossible not to.)7x17 au seriestitle from the lyrics of 'spaceland' by chloe moriondo
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Lucifer & Sam Winchester
Series: falling out of conversations [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1906321
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	i'm losing touch

**Author's Note:**

> haha im sorry in advance :)
> 
> okay real quick this one gets pretty bad, take care of yourself and don't read if this will trigger you
> 
> trigger warnings for (in order) torture, blood, death, implied non-consensual relationships, disassociation, basically a bunch of ongoing panic attacks, suicidal ideation, just trauma in general, typical spn stuff. i'm serious. take care of yourself. 
> 
> and with that, i hope you find a way to like this fic

_ Sam doesn’t sleep. Not anymore. Time isn’t linear for him, only measured in the torture and the beatings and the blood spilled on the bars. (Time is disappearing and he doesn’t know how long it’s been, everything just goes goes goes goes and he can’t change it, doesn’t have any effect on anything, he just screams and begs and cries.)  _

_ He thinks that this isn’t so bad. This is what he signed up for, wasn’t it? He knew what was going to happen when he stepped into Hell, tripped into the Cage and decided to spend an eternity with Lucifer. Sam knew all of this, but at the same time—  _

_ “Come on, Sammy, give me another scream,” he says, grinning with Nick’s face as he puts a knee on Sam’s chest and pulls out the knife again. “I don’t like getting physical, you know that, so you better reward me.”  _

_ “Screw you.” The words are spoken through gritted teeth and Lucifer tuts, tracing the tendons that stick out in his neck.  _

_ “I’ve told you, you’re going to have to do better than that,” he sighs, lining the knife up so that it’s parallel to the tendon. “Now, Sammy, let’s see what’s more painful: slicing it like this…”  _

_ The knife dips in, twisting gently into the flesh as Lucifer cracks it open. Sam can’t hold back the shout or the deeply detested feeling of choking, despite it not even being directly on his throat. It’s a psychological thing, he assumes, and feels tears forming in his eyes as Lucifer cuts deeper and deeper, warm blood spilling outwards before he yanks the blade out cruelly and it  _ gushes,  _ coating Sam’s neck in a fine red paint.  _

_ “…or like this.”  _

_ It’s worse. It’s so much worse. Thin, small cuts along the side, the blade now perpendicular. He knows that if he moves the knife could slip sideways and slit his throat, and Sam doesn’t want to relive that for what? The eighty-seventh time now? It cuts in further every time until Sam can feel it being torn all the way through, the knife kissing his throat with the last swipe through. (He can’t die here, nothing dies here, the pain is forever.)  _

_ Sam doesn’t even know if he was screaming. His ears ring. He can see Lucifer’s face, grinning and manic, shouting, “wonderful! Beautiful, Sammy, I knew you’d pull through. Now, rankings? Pain, one to ten?”  _

_ He can only sob out a breathless, “screw you,” before it plunges into his throat and Sam can feel his blood draining down into his stomach, swallowing against his will, as it pours out at the same time and he can’t move can’t think can’t breathe can’t can’t can’t doesn’t want to live keeps living won’t heal Lucifer stands in the details of the Cage watches laughs grins rakes him over hot coals freezes him until he’s stiff and can’t do anything as Lucifer gets closer closer closer closer closer— _

He curls into himself, fists clutching onto the comforter and his face wet (tears, not blood). The bedsheets are twisted around his legs (linen, not chains). He’s gasping for breath as if it just happened, as if Lucifer's hands are still on him, as if it wasn’t just another messed up dream in a long string of messed up dreams (memories, not dreams). 

He’s not back there. He isn’t. It’s just memories, coming back now that he doesn’t have another way to deal with them. (That’s all it is, Lucifer isn’t here like he was, he is gone gone gone gone gone Caged won’t hurt Sam  _ Sammy Sammy Sammy come back I want you I miss my Sammy I want to hear you scream come back to me.)  _ No big deal. No big deal at all. 

And then Dean’s there all  _ shh shh it’s okay Sammy you’re okay I shouldn’t have left I won’t leave again Cas get some water Sammy kiddo you’re okay shh shh shh. _ He wants to believe it, but at the same time his thoughts melt together and they don’t feel like they’re his anymore and Sam wants to say this but… 

“Dean,” he whispers. 

“Sammy,” Dean breathes, helpless. “You’re okay. I’m right here.” 

(Sam knows that, he knows that and Dean keeps saying it to him like he’s some kid who doesn’t understand but he does. Sam knows it all. He’s okay. Dean’s there. 

It just doesn’t matter.) 

He tells Dean in Enochian while Cas is out of the room. Dean doesn’t understand and Cas can’t translate so maybe he won’t be in trouble. (Maybe Dean will care.) 

“I don’t know what you’re trying to say,” Dean whispers. “English, kiddo.” 

_ No no no no no. English was bad. They yelled at him when he spoke in English.  _

Cas comes inside with water and Dean holds the glass out to him and Sam hits it and it goes flying into the wall like Sam as he scrambles backwards. 

Wall is safe. Corner is safe.  _ Corner, keep me safe forever.  _

Sam should tell Dean that he can’t breathe. 

Sam was always the runner. (He thinks Dean hates him for it.) 

He would leave when he was younger, when John and Dean left him alone, go out of the motel once he knew about it all, always with a silver knife for protection. He would go out of the motel room and find somewhere quiet and considered using the knife because, he thought, no one would miss him. But always, something stopped him. He doesn’t know what it was but Sam has been ready to die so many times he can’t even imagine taking his own life anymore because when would he get the chance? It’s always going to be something else that kills him (Lucifer that brings him back) and Sam does not get a choice here.

Dean was always the protector. (He loved Dean, selfishly, for it.) 

He was always looking out for Sam, keeping an eye on him because Dean has been raising him since he was four. In Sam’s earliest memories, it is simply Dean there, Dean holding him and reading to him and being the mom Sam wasn’t supposed to have. There aren’t words that he knows of that could possibly be enough to thank Dean for giving everything to him, sheltering him for as long as possible until he got too curious, and even after that Dean was still there, keeping him safe. He knows it hurt Dean to watch him fight with Dad, but he just couldn’t do this anymore. Not this life. Sam was always meant to be Dean’s undoing.

John was always the drill sergeant. (He used to be so mad and John died hating him.)

He used to hate being dragged around from motel to motel and never having somewhere to stay, never having the stability or roots that anyone else he met had. He’d scream at John, tell him awful things that weren’t true in the way that he thought they were and tore John apart that night. Sam fought so loud and so hard to go, told John that he couldn’t do this life, he didn’t want this life for himself and told John so many times that he hated him. He remembers how he didn’t cry until John told him that if he was done, he was  _ done. _ “You step out that door, you don’t come back.” Sam hadn’t hesitated and he heard Dean’s broken “Sammy” as he did so, but ignored it as John held Dean back and let Sam walk to the nearest bus station. 

Mary was always sacred. (He never knew her and still, he was supposed to love her. He did. He does.) 

He wouldn’t know what she looked like if it hadn’t been for pictures. Or, of course, angelic time travel, but that still wasn’t Mary, not Dean and John’s Mary. Not the one he’s heard about. That Mary was young and a hunter and hard-edged, not the mother he’d grown up on stories of. She didn’t know him, didn’t want to see who he was. He was just another hunter to her. There was the time where they went to Heaven, but that Mary didn’t even look at him. Sam supposed he’ll always just be invisible to her, the son she never knew. 

Lucifer was eternal. (Sam doesn’t like to think about him but it’s impossible not to.) 

“What deal did you make?” 

“No deals.” 

“Can’t be out. He wants me down there.” 

“You’re here, you’re right next to me.” 

“Dean, do you want me to—” 

“No, no, just let me talk to him. Sam, look at me.” 

“I can’t see. Too dark.” 

“Your eyes are shut.” 

“Don’t want to open them.” 

“Alright. That’s okay. You can hear me?” 

“He climbs the walls.” 

“See, I don’t understand that shit. You’re going to have to try for coherent, bud.” 

“Dean, his temperature’s going up.” 

“Damnit, really?” 

“I can get—” 

“Please.” 

“Of course.” 

Flapping. Angel wings. Going away. (Coming closer.) 

“Okay, Sammy, talk to me. Cas is gone.” 

“Wasn’t ever here.” 

“You’re burning up.” 

“Everything burns.” 

“Ice packs. I’ll get ice packs.” 

“They melt. They melt melt melt all over me and I bloom into razors.” 

“You don’t.” 

“Can’t help it.” 

“Sammy.” 

“Going to die.” 

“Not with me around.” 

“Tripping over salt-and-burn bones and breaking fingers and falling again.” 

“No, Sammy, no.” 

“Dean?” 

“Thank fuck. He’s not making sense.” 

Something presses against Sam’s face and he whimpers. 

“I know, I know, it’s cold. Hang in there.” 

“Nothing here for me.” 

“I am everything at your side.” 

“He tore my throat out.” 

“I know, Sammy.” 

“He did it so many times.” 

“Sam. Stop.” 

“It hurts.” 

“You’re just dehydrated.” 

“I am just just just.” 

“You need to drink.” 

“I am just one Sam,” he whispers. 

Wet drips on his shoulder. 

“Blood.” 

“No, no. Not blood.” 

“Don’t cry, Dean,” Sam says and he feels his older brother bring his arms around him and cry and hold onto him and  _ fuck Dean’s here too this wasn’t part of it please God don’t hurt h _ — 

He doesn’t like to think about when  _ he  _ becomes  _ they. _

He wakes up one morning and Sam’s lucid for the first time in what feels like weeks. 

(It might have been. He doesn’t know.) 

Dean holds him so so so close and Sam breathes him in, beer and flannel. There are no words needed between them, and Dean pushes Sam’s hair back from his face and stares. 

“We need to get some food in you,” Dean finally chokes out, smiling slightly. “How do burgers sound?” 

Sam laughs a little. “Yeah. Yeah, burgers are fine.” 

Dean grins back at him, not noticing that Sam still feels like there are holes in him, big enough to let all the screams out without him opening his mouth once. “Come on, kitchen’s this way.” 

“I remember,” Sam says. “Where’s Cas?” 

“Sam,” he says, suddenly right behind him. “It’s good to see you.” 

“Good to see you too,” Sam says, hesitating for a second before wrapping his arms around the angel as well, who must have been expecting it because his arms do the same as soon as Sam steps close enough. “How long was I…” 

“Long enough,” Dean says. “I’ll go make burgers, then we can sit down and talk.” He meets Sam’s eyes before leaving and says, “it’s great to have you back, brother.” 

Sam can only nod in response when really he thinks he should be apologizing, (After all, what could have caused those lines of stress on Dean’s face, why does he have those bruise-like dark circles under his eyes, who could have caused such a thing to happen to his brother? Sam, obviously.) 

“Three weeks, two days, seven hours, and forty-six seconds,” Cas answers. 

“What?” 

“We’ve been in the cabin for that long,” Cas responds. “You wanted to know.” 

He’s dizzy, he realizes after a second, the information sweeping through his head. “I’ve lost that much time?” he whispers, not meaning to say it out loud. 

“You can make it up,” Cas says gently. “Go. Be with Dean. He’s been waiting for this.” 

Sam nods, numb, and walks (puppet on a string) to the kitchen, where Dean is cooking raw meat that Sam purposely avoids looking at and instead tries to let the presence of his brother fill him up. (He’s been so empty, he can’t imagine being full again.) 

That evening, Sam sits with Dean in the main room, away from the tiny place he’s been shut up in for weeks and talks about it. In English. 

“You wanted your brother back,” Sam says quietly. “But they forgot the most important parts. Someone spilled them. I just…” He pauses. “The room feels so small.  _ I _ feel so small,” he explains to Dean, who’s sitting right next to him and letting Sam put his head on his shoulder. “It’s like he took me and he crushed me and crushed me and just kept crushing, and I got little. My body feels too big now.” 

“Reach for the edges,” Dean says softly, tone matching the hand that’s going through Sam’s hair. “You’ve got to fill up the space.” 

Sam bites his lip. “How do I make the  _ me _ part bigger?” 

Dean threads his fingers with Sam’s. “You stay with me and you take your time. I’m going to make sure you’re okay.” 

The order is simple. 

“Breathe!” 

_ (Dean I’m sorry sorry sorry.)  _

He tries but the air has claws and he decides it’s just not worth it. 


End file.
